


Brother in Name and Blood

by verbaepulchellae



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coming Out, Gen, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:05:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbaepulchellae/pseuds/verbaepulchellae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft comes out to his parents, it doesn't go well. Sherlock offers what comfort he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brother in Name and Blood

He’s sixteen when Tommy Lawson kisses him on the mouth and winds his lovely, lovely fingers in his hair. He’s tried before, with Lily Richards who Mummy insists he take out to the cinema, and her cherry flavored lips were nice beneath his, soft and her eyes fluttered. Tommy Lawson is all wicked blue eyes and lazy smiles and long drawlings of his name that make his stomach go all wonky and there’s no comparison. He tries though, because Mummy always looks so hopeful when she mentions Lily and Father ruffles his newspaper and talks about parliament with such expectation that Mycroft tries just for them.

But the then Tommy uses his lovely hands to stroke him into a shaking mess, lips pressed against his ear and muttering such filthy, beautiful things that Mycroft knows Lily Richards will never be able to compete. He’s comfortable with the realization. Harvey Milk is well known in England and it’s not like he’s going to tell everyone. But he wants Mummy to know, and Father as well. 

So it’s Sunday dinner, and Sherlock is reading a book in his lap and Mummy is telling Father about the new drapes for the sitting room when Mycroft sets down his fork and makes his voice as even as he can. “Father,” he says, “Mummy, I want to tell you something.”

Father looks up his plate and nods. “What is it Mycroft?” Mummy sets down her fork and smiles. 

“I… I’m seeing someone.”

“Oh!” Mummy exclaims, roses in her cheeks, “Oh is it Lily? She is such a wonderful girl.”

“No, Mummy, it’s not Lily. I… do you remember Tommy Lawson?”

“The lad who plays football? Does he have a sister?’ Father asks. “I might advise you, Mycroft, that it’s important to establish connections, and not to lose them for just a bit of fun.” Father’s voice is stern, but there’s a pleased glimmer in his eyes.

“Well, not exactly, Father.” Mycroft places his hands in his lap to hide their quivering. “I’m… I’m seeing Tommy.”

Mummy gasps and sets down her fork. Father looks very hard at Mycroft, who fights to hold his gaze, and then turns to his brother.

“Sherlock,” Father says a little too loudly, and Sherlock’s head snaps around, eyes wide at being addressed by Father, “tell me how your studies are going.”

Sherlock blinks and glances nervously at Mycroft. “They’re… they’re going well, sir.”

“Father,” Mycroft says, gripping his napkin, “I know this is sudden, but-“

“And are you making friends?” Father continues to Sherlock who looks extremely uncomfortable.

“No, sir. I… I’m not well liked.”

“Father, please,” Mycroft begs, “Tommy is a good lad. And I wanted you to know how happy I am.”

Mummy lets out a little sob and buries her face in her napkin.

“Not well liked?” Father is frowning now, glaring at Sherlock who shrinks under the gaze. “How could they not like you? You’re a bright young lad with a promising future.”

“I… I’ll try harder to make friends, sir.” Sherlock whispers.

“Father,” Mycroft manages to get out through his closed throat, “please. I love-“

“YOU WILL NOT-“ Father roars suddenly, “You will not pervert the ears of your family by spewing such disgusting drivel as this at the table, do you understand me?” 

“I’m not,” Mycroft stammers, but Father cuts him off, slim face dangerously red. 

“You will not speak of this again, you will not see this boy again. Do you understand me?”

“But Father,”

“Mycroft, I will not have a son who is diseased. Can you understand that? You had better get over this filthy perversion or you had better leave this house.”

“I… yes, Father.” Mycroft says weakly. 

“Good.” Father picks up his fork and knife and saws into the roast on his plate. “Mary, you were saying about the drapes?”

 

Mycroft expects Mummy to come to his room after Father has retired. She doesn’t. Mycroft sits on the side of his bed in his nightshirt and stares for a very long time at the white wall above his desk. He hears the clock strike 10 and then 11 and the click of his parent’s room closing for the night. There are soft feet on the carpet and the tap of a small fist against the door. Mycroft doesn’t answer.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock whispers. Mycroft thinks of all the times he’s ignored Sherlock at dinner, the way Father always has. He thinks about the time he saw Sherlock pushed into the mud before school. He thinks about how he sneered at the drawing Sherlock gave him when he was twelve and left it in the library only to find it under his door later. About how he stepped on it as he pushed it with his toe into the hallway. About how it was gone an hour later. He doesn’t say anything.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says again, and then he pushes open the door. For a nine year old, Sherlock is awfully small and skinny. His hair falls into his eyes and he peeks around the door nervously. “Are you ok?” he whispers.

Mycroft shakes himself. “I’m fine. Go to bed, little brother.”

Sherlock holds his ground, biting down on his lip in a completely childish manner. If it were any other time, Mycroft would scold him for it but his stomach roles at the thought of putting a sentence together. His head buzzes, he feels sick, feverish. He manages a glare at Sherlock who looks down at the carpet but steps into the room and closes the door.

“Father is not a nice man,” Sherlock says very quietly and Mycroft wants to laugh and cry at the naïveté of the statement. It rises up in his chest and comes out as a gasping noise that Mycroft quickly muffles with a hand over his mouth. Sherlock looks up and he looks so sad.

“Myc,” Sherlock says inching closer until he reaches the foot of Mycroft’s bed. “I don’t mind.”

“You should,” Mycroft’s voice cracks but he doesn’t care. “Father’s right, I’m filthy.”

“You’re not,” Sherlock insists. “I read about it in a book, homosexuality is natural. You can’t choose to be one way or another. People just are what they are.” Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed and hesitantly reaches out to pat Mycroft’s shoulder. It’s awkward and unsure and Mycroft can’t contain the shaking in his body or the heaves in his chest. He tips over into Sherlock, drawing his knees up and resting his forehead against his brother’s thigh. 

“Oh god,” he whispers, over and over, “oh god, oh god.” Sherlock’s fingers twitch against his arm and then grip the fabric of his shirt. 

“Myc, I don’t mind, I don’t mind,” Sherlock whispers, voice slightly panicked and hands unsure of how to touch, how to comfort without ever having been comforted himself. 

Mycroft curls his fingers around Sherlock’s hand, pulls it down so he hold it against his chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Trapped, Sherlock folds himself over Mycroft, resting his head on his brother’s side and squeezing his eyes shut. “It doesn’t change who you are,” he says, rather helplessly, “You’re still my brother.”

And Mycroft has to laugh, because he’s never been Sherlock’s brother in more than name and blood but it’s almost a relief to hear it. He takes big, calming breaths; thinks about how Tommy rubs his back, about how beautiful the sky can be during the summer. Thinks about how at least one member of his family still loves him for who he is, and it helps. His stomach stops churning and the panicked, sick feeling his chest begins to dull and settle. He looks up at Sherlock. “Thank you,” he says softly, “Thank you for this.”

Sherlock shrugs, looking uncomfortable again. “You’re welcome.” And then, “I could read you a story?”

Mycroft laughs and releases Sherlock’s hand. “No, no that’s alright, Sherlock.” He sits up and notes the minute fall of his brother’s face. “Do you…” he starts and makes himself finish, “do you want me to read you a story, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looks up at him and gives him a small, hopeful smile. “Would you?”

“Come along,” Mycroft says, “It’s late, and if you want to wake up in time for school tomorrow, we had better start now.” Sherlock actually smiles this time and slips off his bed and hurries to the door, and Mycroft thinks things may actually turn out all right.

**Author's Note:**

> So... I have a very hard time writing happy stories? It might be a problem? On another note, I'm looking for a beta because I'm considering working on some longer pieces, and it would be a help to have someone who I could bounce ideas off of/who would keep me from writing only terribly upsetting and sad pieces. If you have any interest, send me a message/leave a comment/however it works here... I'm still new and figuring things out.


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